


Hope

by Tatjna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cheese, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatjna/pseuds/Tatjna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his time in solitary, Anders receives an unexpected visitor. Warning: implied abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

_Thud._

Anders starts awake and stares wildly around, desperately trying to penetrate the darkness even as his body scrambles to get away from the sound. When his spine contacts the cold stone of the corner furthest

(four paces, twelve foot lengths, twenty four hand spans)

from the cell door and he can retreat no further, he attempts to make himself as small as possible, drawing his head down between his knees and wrapping his arms around himself for protection.

Breath held, senses on high alert, he tries to detect where the first blow will come from.

(two armspans between the walls two heartbeats to reach from door to bed)

Straining for the giveaway clicks of armour, the scrape of a foot on stone, a sighing intake of breath. There is nothing.

The waiting is the worst - the silence of anticipation between knowing and feeling, stretched just long enough for tentative hope to gain purchase, so that when the blow comes it always wounds him more deeply for its betrayal. He knows this and yet he cannot keep that small spark from flaring in the darkness they have made of his soul.

The slow death of his optimism is the worst torture they have inflicted on him. Even Silenced and without magic his body will heal, but he is afraid that his mind will be permanently broken. Each time they offer Tranquility, he hesitates longer before rejecting it. He knows it's only a matter of time before he begs for it, and time is all he has here in the darkness.

(seven meals and three times they empty the pot between visits)

The crash of metal hitting stone makes him jerk back, head slamming against the wall as an involuntary whimper escapes him, hands raised to protect his face. Trembling, he braces for the expected blossoming of pain and shameful tears squeeze out between tightly-closed lids. One breath, two.. the blow does not come.

He doesn't understand. Is this some new torture? Why haven't they started yet? What are they waiting for?

Silence. Anders begins counting, the same way he counted in the first days in a futile attempt to measure time. At five hundred he remains unmolested. Perhaps they are waiting for him to move, no longer entertained by his cowering. Regardless, he can't stand the waiting any longer and he slowly uncurls from his corner and crawls forward.

A small clink startles him as his hand encounters a metal object on the floor - heavy, cylindrical - it's the candlestick that sits on the high shelf

(eighteen bricks up, four along, three handspans long one wide)

that only holds a candle when they want to see him, the flare of light hurting his eyes as he flinches away followed by caressing steel hands that he can't escape and laughter that haunts his dreams long after the hurt ends.

A small, furry body brushes against his arm and he scuttles back into his corner in fright, fearing the bite that inevitably follows when a rat gets into his cell.

"Prrrow?"

Plaintive and questioning, and distinctly feline, the noise is accompanied by another furry bump as the animal follows him to his corner.

Anders' heart races. "Mr Wiggums?" His voice is a cracked whisper.

"Prrooow." A soft head insinuates itself under his hand and he unconsciously begins to stroke the fur. Maker! How did he get in here?

"You found me! Who's a good kitty then? Who found me down here oh what a good kitty, what a clever kitty you are, oh yes!" Words tumble out, nonsense talk and praise as he scoops up the cat into his arms and holds him cradled against his chest. He rocks back and forth, desperately whispering his love and grief for he doesn't know how long

(not counting)

as quiet purring emerges from the tiny throat and a small, raspy tongue licks the salt from his face. When he falls asleep the cat, fur wet with tears, curls up warm on his chest.

Later the hatch slides open to allow a bowl of watery soup, and Anders watches Mr Wiggums leap from the bed to the shelf and disappear into a small ventilation hole.

"Prrrrow." As if in reassurance.

Anders smiles to himself. Sometimes hope is rewarded after all.


End file.
